


Safe and Sound

by rubygirl29



Series: Love, Loss, Hope, Repeat [6]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-09
Updated: 2014-02-09
Packaged: 2018-01-11 16:15:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1175135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubygirl29/pseuds/rubygirl29
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nothing good has ever happened to Clint in Budapest. This time is no different, and when he's reunited with Natasha, things go downhill fast.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Safe and Sound

**Author's Note:**

> Continuing the series "Love, Loss, Hope, Repeat." No real notes or warnings other than Clint's language and some kissing. 
> 
> As always, they belong to Marvel. I own only my words.

_You could be my luck_  
Even if the sky is falling down.  
 I know that we'll be safe and sound  
Safe and Sound by Capital Cities

 

Clint wakes up to the aroma of brewing coffee wafting from the direction of the kitchen. There is the soft _clink_ of china and flatware, and a dent in the pillow next to his. Coulson stayed. It gives Clint a warm, heavy feeling around his heart. He lies there a moment, savoring the comfort of his bed, the knowledge that there is coffee waiting, and Phil ... God, Phil ... in his bed all night. Not that anything happened, but just the thought that he cared enough to stay when so many other hadn’t ... that’s fucking amazing. 

He gets out of bed reluctantly, cleans up in his tiny, efficient bathroom, and barefooted, makes his way to the kitchen where Phil, dressed in his impeccable suit, is slicing up a banana. It’s a sight worth seeing; domestic and undeniably hot. Clint pours himself a mug of coffee and sits at the breakfast bar.

"You found your way around pretty well," Clint says. 

"It’s a small kitchen."

"I planned it that way." He sips at the coffee. It’s good, not that he wouldn’t drink it if it tasted like pine tar. 

Phil puts a bowl of oatmeal with the banana sliced on top in front of him. "Eat up. We have a mission."

"So, this is like blackmail?"

"Think of it as incentive." Coulson smiles that mysterious half-smile of his, but his eyes are kind and slightly concerned. "It’s Budapest."

Clint groans. "You know absolutely nothing good has ever happened to me there -- and as I recall, it doesn’t rank high on your top ten list, either."

"Not so much."

"So, why are we going there?"

Coulson’s phone rings. He reads the text. "There is a flight from LaGuardia to Rome in two hours. Time to pack."

"Aside from my awesome wardrobe, what should I bring?"

"The arsenal. S.H.I.E.L.D. will be here in thirty minutes to secure it and take it to the airport."

That was never a good sign. The arsenal included bow and arrows, guns, knives ... That level of weaponry was reserved for the most dangerous ops, which just made this trip to Budapest even less appealing than usual. "Any other clues you can give me?"

"On the plane."

"Why are we traveling commercial? Isn’t military more efficient?"

"Cover story. We need to go in under the radar. Dossier details once we’re in the air."

Clint takes a deep breath. "Okay, boss." He tips Coulson a glance, wondering if he has already pushed last night to the back of his mind, deciding it was nothing but a moment between handler and asset not different from taking care of said asset on a mission. The feeling leaves Clint vaguely hurt and disappointed. The kisses of last night were clearly an aberration. He looks at Coulson in his perfect suit, his fine cotton shirt, the expertly knotted tie, and realizes that he must settle for what Coulson is; his handler at work, his friend in the off-hours. He isn’t sure what he is as he follows Coulson out the door and locks it behind him. It seems oddly symbolic. 

By the time he and Phil are on the plane, he’s regained his equilibrium. Phil is pretty much as usual; composed, organized, cooly efficient. They sit side by side. Phil smells like wool and fresh soap, and _skin_. Clint wants to lay his head on his shoulder and bury his nose in Phil’s neck -- which would be inappropriate at the best and creepy-stalker-ish at the worst. 

Phil hands him a Starktab and opens the files with his access code. "I’m Phillip Cole, IT developer. You’re Francis Clinton, adventurer and photojournalist."

Clint nearly spews his drink. "Seriously? That is the worst cover I’ve ever heard. Who does that sort of thing for a living?"

"Somebody who’s inherited fifteen million dollars."

Clint snorts. "Right. I'm good, but nobody is gonna believe that shit about me."

"It will give you access to the roof of the building across from where I will be meeting with our old friend Boris."

"Karsavinov? What’s he peddling now?"

"Hacking software. He wants to hack Stark Industries. That isn’t going to happen, but we’ll let him think I’m looking for revenge on Stark for pirating some of my codes."

"So, we get Boris and his software. Sweet. What’s my part?"

"There are falcons nesting on the building where we’re meeting. You get a great big camera and a high-power rifle."

Clint prefers his bow, but the rifle makes more sense. "Boris isn’t going to come alone," Clint reminds Coulson. "He never travels without muscle."

Coulson’s mouth twitches. "Neither do I."

"You just love me for my arms," Clint deadpans, but his heart gives a little beat in his chest. 

Coulson’s eyes crinkle at the corners. "One of many reasons," he says, and Clint _knows_ he’s got to be joking because there is no way he’s serious about that. Clint gives him a smirk. 

"So, what’s next?"

"Sleep until we get to Rome and have to change planes."

Clint nods. Sleep is good. He wouldn’t admit it to Coulson, but he is still feeling the effects of his last injury. It’s nothing he’s worried about, but he’s never denied the healing power of sleep.  
To his chagrin, he wakes up drooling on Coulson’s suit. Coulson merely lifts his shoulder and nudges Clint upright. 

" _Buongiorno_ ," Coulson smiles. "Sleep well?"

Clint rubs at the corner of his mouth. "I don’t know, sir. Did I?"

"Like a baby."

Clint doubts he slept like that even as a baby, but Coulson would be kind about it. They prepare for landing, exit the jetway and make their way through Da Vinci terminal to the gate for their flight to Budapest. 

Instead of the usual tourist class hotel, they are booked into Le Meridien Budapest. Clint has seen his share of nice hotels since traveling with Coulson and this one is near the top of the list. The lobby is gold and white perfection, the stairs are broad and curving, covered with red and gold carpet that is like velvet underfoot. They have separate rooms on the same floor, next to each other. God bless the S.H.I.E.L.D. travel agency.

Clint opens the door and lets the valet carry his bags inside. The room is large with a bed that looks impossibly comfortable and so pristine that Clint feels guilty for stepping inside and ruining the vacuum marks on the carpeting. He opens the balcony door. Coulson’s balcony is close enough for Clint to cross as long as the weather holds out and he doesn’t have to negotiate the wrought iron in sleet or a thunderstorm. 

The valet leaves, the door closing with a soft _snick_ behind him. Clint’s phone chimes. _Dress for dinner. Look in your armoire_. Clint does. Inside is a dark blue suit, a blue-gray shirt and a silver and blue patterned tie. S.H.I.E.L.D. is going all out on this one. Clint can do that. He showers, shaves, dresses in the suit, which fits him perfectly, because, of course, S.H.I.E.L.D. has his measurements down to the millimeter. 

Clint texts Coulson as he heads down the curving staircase to the lobby. _Dining together?_

_Meet me in the bar in ten minutes._

The bar is as luxurious as the rest of the hotel. Small lamps cast intimate pools of light at the tables and booths, and the bar is long and elaborately carved. Coulson is sitting there, sipping a drink. He doesn’t look like a computer hacker, but he does look like he’s taken a page from Tony Stark’s book on how a billionaire software engineer dresses for success. He’s stepped up from his usual Dolce to some designer who has fitted the suit more closely to his frame, broadening his shoulders and narrowing his waist. This is not helping Clint pretend that the night before last never happened. 

Coulson goes on alert as Clint takes the seat next to him and orders a _Kobanyai Sor_ draft. He sips it slowly and waits for Coulson to initiate contact. "American?" he asks Clint.

"Yeah. You?"

"Born and raised in Chicago."

Clint lifts his glass. "Born in Iowa, raised everywhere."

"A real citizen of the world, huh?" He toasts with his own glass. They do the introductions like they’ve never met. It’s kind of kinky, Clint thinks as they tell the waiter they’ll be dining together. 

They order spicy goulash and two more beers, followed by a Hungarian apple cake for dessert and coffee. Throughout the meal, they talked like strangers; obliquely about work, sports, books … Even though they are playing a part, Clint still finds Coulson intriguing. Phil seems to be enjoying himself,too. After they pay and get into the elevator, Clint wonders what the fuck is going on; some sort of role-playing sex game, or just a show for public benefit. He feels uncertain and in way over his head. 

They pause outside their doors and Clint finally breaks. "What is going on here, Coulson? What are we playing at?"

"I’m not playing at anything." Phil’s eyes are burning blue and bright. "Nothing about this is a game."

"I’m not talking about the mission!"

"Neither am I." Phil takes Clint’s lapels in his hand and pulls him close for a hard, needy kiss that leaves no doubt to his meaning. "We’re taking this inside." He runs his card and yanks the door open, pulling Clint in after him. 

Clint is spun against the door and grabs Coulson’s shoulders for balance. Their bodies are pressed tightly together and Clint feels _everything_. He doesn’t pretend that Phil can’t feel him as well; the rise and rapid fall of his breath, the rough need, the hardness of his erection in those damn tight pants. 

Coulson tastes of spice and beer, of sweet apple and coffee. Clint wants to drink him in, to take his breath. He moans softly, and Phil’s hands claim him, hip and waist, bringing them even closer to each other. 

"This is insane," Coulson releases him and steps back, his composure shaken. 

"Our jobs are insane," Clint argues.

Coulson doesn’t have time to counter that; the sudden shattering of the balcony windows does it quite effectively. Clint covers Phil’s body with his own. "Stay down! Where’s your gun?"

"Armoire. Neither of our wardrobes left much to the imagination." Clint reaches up and hits the lights, leaving them in darkness, then creeps over to the armoire and finds Coulson’s holster and weapon. "Cover me. I’m going to get my rifle and night scope. See if I can’t get the sniper before they get us."

He stays low, opens the door and still in a practiced army crawl, makes his way into the corridor. There is a woman staring at him. He looks up. "Lost my contact." He runs his finger over the rug. "Aha! Got it." He holds his finger up in triumph. Opens his door and immediately closes it, dropping to the floor and retrieving his rifle and scope. He takes out his phone and texts Phil. "Diversion please?"

He hears the bark of Coulson’s pistol and a muzzle flare from the building opposite. He raises the rifle, looks quickly through the scope and fires. The sniper’s rifle falls from the balcony opposite to the ground. Clint peers through his scope. There is a dark shape huddled on the balcony. The lights in the room across the way come on and catch a spill of red but it's not blood, Clint realizes. His stomach clenches. He knows only one world-class assassin with hair like that. _Natasha_. He hates Budapest. 

_Coulson, you okay?_ he texts and receives an affirmative. _BRB_ , he texts. He studies the buildings, the way the street narrows around the curve. He takes out one of his grappling arrows and shoots it to the roof, climbing hand over hand to the roof. He runs along the tiles, keeping low, and cautious of the cracks and loose bits of clay and brick littering the roof. The two buildings are close enough that he can base jump to the roof. He loves picturesque old buildings with ornate facades that provide footholds and handholds. He drops down on the balcony where he had seen Natasha. 

There is a smear of blood on the wrought iron and on the door. Not a lot of blood, but it looks like he clipped her good. A flesh wound wouldn't slow her much. The room is an office with metal desks and computers with old-fashioned monitors. There are more splotches of scarlet on the floor. He takes out his Glock and eases into the hall. The splotches lead to a stairwell. Clint slips through the door cautiously. More blood on the stairs. He rounds a landing and finds himself facing the business end of a gun and Natasha’s green eyes. 

"Fancy meeting you here," he says. She’s white-faced and her hands are smeared with blood. "Put the gun down, Tasha."

"You aren’t my target," she says. 

"You could have fooled me."

"The man you are with … he is …"

"He’s not what you think." The gun is starting to waver. "Tasha, you’re going to pass out. Give me the gun and let me help you."

"Who are you with?" she whispers. "Why are you working with such a man?"

Clint moves quickly, his arm coming up and knocking the gun out of Natasha’s weak grip. Damn, she must really be hurt. If she weren’t hurt he’d have a bullet between his eyes. "You know when you left me at S.H.I.E.L.D., you saved my life. Let me return the favor."

"I don’t need your help."

"That’s not how I see it." She’s thinner than she was just two years ago. Her cheeks are hollow, her eyes shadowed and strained, her entire body is taut as a spring wound to the breaking point. He knows that look, that feeling that one more touch and you will snap in two. "Tasha," he pleads, "Tell me why you’re here."

"Did you come to kill me?" she asks.

"Not specifically, but I might be able to save you."

He keeps his gun trained on her as he calls Coulson. "Boss, mind meeting me on the first floor of the office building across the street?"

"Did you get him?"

Clint grimaces. “Not exactly. But I have _her_ in custody." 

"Her?"

"Natasha Romanov." He hears Phil’s soft curse of shock. "Just … she’s hurt. We can't just leave her to bleed to death." He can almost hear Coulson's sigh of exasperation. 

"Barton, we are going to talk about this."

Clint crouches down and takes off his tie, wrapping the very expensive silk over the wound in Natasha’s upper arm. His bullet must have clipped an artery because it’s bleeding more than a flesh wound. An inch to the left, and she’d be dead. That thought brings him no joy. "Sorry, I know it hurts."

She shrugs. "I’ve had worse."

"That’s not the point. I shot you."

"You didn’t kill me," she sighs. "You don’t miss."

"I didn’t miss. I wasn't shooting to kill." He ties a knot and she hisses in pain. "I’m more interested in who hired you."

Her lips set in a stubborn line. Clint helps her to her feet. "Don’t think about escaping or I will kill you." Her small, elegant snort tells him that she knows he won’t, but she’s also smart enough to know that running doesn’t leave her many options. 

Natasha wilts against him and he tightens his grip. He doesn’t trust her, and hopes Coulson brought cuffs or drugs with him. They take the elevator down to the first floor. Coulson is standing there. His Glock is visible beneath the flap of his jacket and he has a set of metal cuffs dangling from his fingers. "Do I need to use these, Ms. Romanov?" She shakes her head, hiding behind a fall of red curls. "Look me in the eye," he says mildly, but with the same edge of command that Clint knows well. 

She does and Phil studies her. He gives Clint an amused glance. "She left you to S.H.I.E.L.D.," he reminds Clint.

"I thinks it’s only fair to return the favor, sir."

Natasha manages a glare despite her pallor. She lets Coulson cuff her gently, not putting too much pressure on her wound. He doesn’t, however, holster his weapon and neither does Clint. They flank her and walk her out of the office building. 

"We need a ride," Coulson tells him quietly. 

"I know where we can get one, but we have to patch her up first. We can’t take her through the hotel lobby." Coulson raises a brow at that, and Clint grins. "I know where the freight elevators are," he explains. He can tell from the twitch at the corner of Coulson’s mouth that he’s amused and completely unsurprised. Clint always has an exit strategy. 

The exit door is padlocked. Clint uses the butt of his Glock to break the hasp. Shitty security, he thinks, and still looks for wires indicating an alarm. There are none. Natasha is wilting fast. He’d suspect her of a ploy, but her lips are white and she’s sweating despite the chilly night. She could win an Oscar with her performance, but Clint knows her too well. As they cross the street, her softness pressing against his arm is more of a warning than a pleasure. 

The door opens onto an alley with a rusty squeak. The entrance isn’t used much, not even by the staff. It’s too narrow for deliveries, he figures and too far from the kitchens for convenience. The floor inside, however, is clean and the elevator doors open easily enough. Clint holds Coulson and Natasha back once they get to their floor. Clint peers out. He’s in a service area for the laundry and housekeeping. He drops his arm and lets them out. Coulson grabs an armful of clean towels and they walk as quickly as two men holding a nearly comatose woman can to their room. 

Clint’s is closer, and not shot up. He opens the door and Coulson lowers Natasha to the bed. Clint’s tie is more red than silver now. Clint gives him a knife to cut the silk off. Natasha winces and goes even more pale. She doesn’t look at the wound. Coulson lays a towel beneath her and Clint tosses his go-bag with a small, but well-stocked first aid kit on the bed. "Patch her up. I’ll call when I have a car for us." He looks down at Natasha. "Do we need to sedate you? We will, you know."

She shakes her head. "I’m done."

Clint’s smile isn’t exactly warm. "Don’t trust her, Coulson." He leaves them alone and hopes Natasha is smart enough to realize that she’s out of her league when it comes to Coulson. He only looks like a corporate lawyer, as Clint well knows. Briefly, he flashes back to the searing kiss they shared earlier, then shakes that image out of his head. Time to focus, Barton, he tells himself.

He selects a car that probably belongs to a tourist as it has a rental car sticker on it. It’s a mid-size dark Hundai, completely anonymous, but to be sure, he looks around, finds a car leaking oil (not hard around here), and smears the dark, viscous liquid over the plates. He takes out his phone. “I found one. Dark Hundai, plates obscured. Meet you at the entrance in five.” He gets the doors open — please, he’s not been an angel in his past and he sure as hell knows how to get into a car and hotwire it. He’s pleased to see that there’s nearly a full tank of gas, and pulls up to the entrance to the hotel. A minute later, Coulson and a very groggy Natasha are in the back seat. 

"I thought you weren’t going to drug her, sir."

"It seemed like a wise decision."

"She’ll probably get sick all over that nice suit."

"Not before we have our extraction." He hands Clint his phone with a map of the city. "There’s a safe house in the suburbs. An extraction team is on the way."

"Sir, did I ever tell you that competency makes me all hot?"

"I’m more than competent, Barton," his chuckle is soft, close to Clint’s ear. "Just keep your hands on the wheel and your eyes on the road."

"Yes, sir." He’s smiling though, and he hopes Natasha won’t remember overhearing that little exchange of intimacy.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
The drive should have been simple. It started out easily enough with Coulson at the wheel and Clint in the back seat with Natasha. The bandage he had put on her arm was already soaked through and he's using a towel as a tourniquet, releasing the pressure every few minutes. He catches a glimpse of Phil's concerned eyes in the rearview mirror.

"Coulson, she's still leaking blood. I must've nicked her brachial artery." He knows he sounds scared. Natasha is one of the few people he allowed to get close to him, no matter how badly that had turned out, there were some good memories, too. 

He presses one of the stolen towels under her arm and holds it there with his fingers. He catches Coulson looking back through the rearview mirror. "What?"

"I don't want to alarm you, but I think we have a tail."

"Fuck!" Clint curses and looks out the window. Headlights glimmer, not too close, but not far, either. "You sure?"

Coulson gives him a long-suffering look. "I think I know when I'm being tailed, Barton."

"I can't shoot yet and this road isn't exactly a sheet of glass. Make the next left and see if —" The words are cut off and the front tires both go flat at the same time. Coulson slews the car, trying to counteract the skid. Clint's head bangs hard against the window and the last thing he's aware of is Coulson's cry of pain and a shower of broken glass as the car goes off the road. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
Clint's head is pounding. He doesn't think he had that much to drink the night before. He tries to open his eyes, but the right one is blurry and the left one seems to be glued shut. He lifts his right arm and scrubs at it. When he opens his eyes, he sees that it's nowhere near dawn. He peers at his fingers, they are sticky with dried blood. Everything is off-kilter and he starts to remember … the car, being followed, Coulson … _God, Coulson!_ He sits up … something is missing. Not something … someone. "Tasha?" He sits up, ignoring the way the world is spinning around him. She's gone, and only the bloodstained towel and a strand of red hair on his arm give evidence to her presence. He looks for his weapons and curses when he realizes they are gone along with Natasha. 

Coulson groans softly and Clint stumbles out of the door and over to the driver's side. The dome light flickers, but stays on while Clint makes a visual assessment of Coulson't condition. There is a lump the size of a pigeon's egg on his forehead, his lip is split and bleeding sluggishly, and his left wrist doesn't look right. Clint reaches into his pack and takes out a bottle of water. He holds it to Coulson's lips, just enough to moisten them. "Coulson, come on." Clint strokes his cheek, and stands back when Coulson makes a sudden movement towards his sidearm. "Whoa, easy, sir. It's just me. Not that it would do you any good." 

Phil opens his eyes. He looks as bleary as Clint feels. "Our passenger?"

"Gone, with our guns. Knowing Natasha, she had back-up." 

"Knowing Natasha?" Coulson winces as he straightens in his seat. "Help me out of here."

Clint takes his right arm. "Your left wrist looks like it might be dislocated."

Coulson sighs. "It feels like it."

"I need your tie."

Phil sighs. "Fury is not going to be happy to get the bill."

Clint can't help smirking as he loosens the knot and slides the tie out of Phil's collar. He fashions a sling and helps Phil slip his arm through the support. Phil's phone chimes and he reads the text. "The safe house is about two miles east. Feel like a walk?"

Clint's head throbs. "Not really, sir."

"Are you all right?"

"Good enough."

"The Black Widow has eluded us again?"

"We almost had her, sir." He doesn't know if he's relieved or annoyed. "I thought _I_ had her. I should have known better."

Coulson clumsily soaks his handkerchief in water, squeezes out the excess and pulls Clint closer. "You're bleeding." He dabs at Clint's forehead and wipes the blood from his eyelashes. "You'll need stitches. There's a first aid kit at the safe house."

Clint releases a puff of breath, resigned to the feel of blood trickling from the gash. At least it's slowed enough for the occasional dab from his shirt sleeve to keep it out of his eyes. "I guess we'd better start walking." He's not looking forward to it. He's dizzy and he's certain he has a concussion. Coulson's mouth is tight with pain. Clint digs deeper in his pack and pulls out Ibuprofen. He shakes out doses for himself and Phil. They finish the bottle of water between them; there are two more in the pack. Clint would kill for coffee. It's the middle of the night. He turns toward the horizon. "So, two miles that way?"

"Coordinates are in my phone. Let's go."

They aren't the worst two miles Clint has ever hiked, but they're right up there in his top five. Between his headache, which is being compounded by a migraine, and watching Phil, obviously in pain, struggle to stay upright, he's miserable. Finally, he slides an arm around Phil's waist. "Lean on me. My head feels like it will fall off, but the rest of me is okay." 

Phil doesn't argue. He leans into Clint, letting him take the weight of his weary, pain-wracked body. "It can't be much farther," he offers.

"Distance is a matter of perspective," Clint grumbles, but he willingly takes Phil's weight. The ibuprofen hasn't done much to improve his headache, but the edge is gone and the level of pain in the rest of his battered body is tolerable. As they start their unsteady progress, he thinks they must look damn pathetic; two bruised and battered fighters lurching towards their corners. 

The night day is showing signs of developing threatening weather; dark clouds edged with flashes of lightning hang low on the horizon, which worries Clint. "How much farther to the safe house? This weather is going to break in the next hour, if not sooner." 

"It should be over that rise."

Rise. Great. That meant a climb uphill. Clint's left knee is starting to ache; he's had arthroscopic surgery on it in the past and it's a fairly accurate barometer; or maybe he's torn something else since it's feeling a little loose and sharp. He's grateful that they can stay on the road instead of going off into the rough tussocks of grass. Coulson is lagging, his mouth white at the corners, and Clint is worried that he has injured something more than his wrist. What if he's bleeding internally? 

"Phil? You okay?"

"Hmm?" His eyes are a little blown, but they focus with an effort. "I'll make it," he says. Clint would offer to carry him if he weren't afraid picking Coulson up would aggravate any internal injuries — not that his knee would stand up under the added weight. 

"I'd carry you," he says, and Coulson laughs.

"You're a Legolas, Barton, not a Samwise Gamgee," Then he pauses and gives Clint a considering look, "Though maybe a mix of both."

"Does that make Director Fury Sauron?"

"Please, Barton, don't give him the Ring of Power."

It's the kind of comfortable banter they're used to, and Clint is relieved to see the pain fading slightly from Phil's face. They're both silenced by the rumble of thunder in the distance. "I hope the coordinates are right. Spending the night in the rain during a thunderstorm isn't high on my bucket list."

They finally crest the hill. Clint stops. "Seriously? This is the safe house? The budget deficit must be worse than I realized."

If the hotel had been on the high end of S.H.I.E.L.D. accommodations, the safe house is on the lowest rung of the ladder. It's a falling-down cottage overgrown with weeds. It looks deserted. Even Phil is taken aback by the condition. "It's bigger on the inside?" he suggests weakly.

Clint gives a bark of laughter. "Your knowledge of pop culture has increased exponentially since you started hanging out with me."

"So has your vocabulary. I'm impressed." The last is spoken with a hitch of pain. 

"Coulson, I was serious about carrying you." 

"I think I can make it five hundred feet more or less." 

"Okay." 

Five hundred feet has never felt so far. When they reach the door, Coulson brushes aside some of the overgrowth, revealing a touchpad. He keys in some numbers, presses his thumb against the pad, and opens the door just as thunder and lightning seem to rip the clouds open.

The tech has given Clint a faint hope that when the door opens it will reveal some sort of comforting accommodations. Apparently S.H.I.E.L.D. hasn't given this place much thought for a while. The furniture is rustic (to be polite) and dusty. Cobwebs festoon the corners. The kitchen sink is rust-stained. Clint guides Phil to a lumpy couch. A small puff of dust rises from the cushions, and all Clint can think of is the germs that must be in the air. At least the roof isn't leaking. 

"So, this place hasn't been used much, huh?"

"We've stayed in worse. That hut in the Philippines, the slum in Maylaysia …"

"You had to remind me. There should be a first aid kit around here." He goes into the bathroom which has a sink and a toilet, but no shower or tub. "Sorry, Coulson, there doesn't seem to be one here." He returns to the main room. 

Phil is lying still and stiff on the couch, his arm cradled on his chest to avoid more pain.  
"Try under the kitchen sink," he replies, not opening his eyes.

Clint finds a surprisingly pristine first aid kit, complete with Ace bandages, plastic splints, and a sealed envelope of Vicodin. _Thank you, God_ , Clint thinks. He finds bottles of water in the functional refrigerator and hands the Vicodin and a bottle to Coulson. "Take this before I start dealing with your arm."

Phil pushes the pills away. "Vicodin will knock me out. We can't afford that."

Clint had suspected he would turn down the meds. "I had to try. It's not like I look forward to hurting you."

Coulson gives him a wry half-smile. "We both know I've been hurt worse with malicious intent. I think I can survive your doctoring."

It's true, but Clint isn't a sadist. Hurting Coulson makes _him_ hurt. Never mind that the ibuprofen he took is a spectacular fail. He needs to get this done before he can't see straight. He looks doubtfully at Phil. "Are you sure?"

Phil nods, his eyes dark and lines of pain carved at the corner of his mouth. Clint knows Phil has endured worse, but not at his hand and he feels ill. "Okay. Let's do this." He takes Phil's wrist in his hands gently. Phil's wrist is narrow, the knob of bone prominent despite the swelling. Clint holds both wrists, feeling the bones in the uninjured hand and comparing them to the injured wrist. "Ready?"

"Do it," Coulson hisses. Clint, firmly but gently manipulates the bones back into place as quickly as possible. Being an archer has given him fair knowledge of the anatomy of the hand and wrist, even so, it's not simple. By the time he's certain the bones are in place again, Phil is shaking and breathing hard. 

"I'm done," Clint says as he wraps the wrist and clips the ends of the elastic bandage in place. He helps Phil settle the tie again as a sling. "I wish you'd take the damn Vicodin," he mutters as he looks up from his handiwork. Phil's face is gray and Clint has never seen him so exhausted. 

"So, how long until extraction?"

"Dawn."

Clint wishes it was a lot sooner. "They're taking their good old time." He slips his arm around Coulson't waist and leads him into the bedroom. It's small, and the wind is leaking through the window panes. The mattress looks unforgiving. Clint moves the pillows around until they're arranged against the headboard. Phil is clinging to the door frame with his good hand. 

"I need help, Barton." He looks unnerved. 

Clint nods. "I've got you, boss." He walks Phil to the bathroom, steadies him as he uses the toilet and washes his hands with antiseptic gel. They go back to the bedroom where Clint settles with his back against the wall. He opens his legs, and pulls Phil down to rest against his chest. He takes off his boots and Phil's, then wraps him in his strong arms, giving his wrist added support. "Comfortable?"

"As possible as I can be," Phil's voice is starting to slur as exhaustion takes over. "Thanks, Clint, for everything."

"No problem." Clint doesn't tell Phil that his vision is blurring or his head feels like it's about to crack open, or that he's afraid to fall asleep because he can't risk being groggy from a concussion. He simply tightens his arms until Phil's body relaxes against his, and his head falls back against Clint's shoulder. Then, with his chin resting on Phil's soft hair, Clint listens to the rain and fading thunder as he waits for the dawn.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

Despite his determination, Clint's exhaustion and pain send him into a doze just as the sky is beginning to lighten. He isn't sure what wakes him; the heat of Phil's body, his own pain, the sound of tires crunching on the gravel. He doesn't want to jar Phil with a sudden movement, but the only weapon he has is the knife he kept hidden in his boot. Funny that Natasha didn't take that along with his guns, she knew he carried one. Maybe she's still got a soft spot for him. More likely she couldn't reach his jammed leg to pull the knife out of his boot. 

He reaches carefully to unsheathe the knife, and Phil is instantly awake. "What is it?"

"Vehicle, coming up the drive."

Phil pulls himself up with his good arm. There isn't much in the cabin to use as a weapon. He snatches up scissors from the medical kit and a can of spray antiseptic. They take up positions on either side of the door and wait. The purr of a powerful engine grows into a growl, Phil looks out the side window and relaxes slightly. "S.H.I.E.L.D., if we're lucky."

Clint peers out over Phil's shoulder. "Director Fury must love us. He sent Sitwell." He can see relief flood Phil's face, eclipsing the pain. He looks beautiful, Clint thinks, even scraped up, with a five o'clock shadow, and in a ruined suit. Next to him, Clint feels like ten miles of bad road; bruised, battered torn up, and … just plain Clint Barton. 

Sitwell has his weapon drawn as he comes in, followed by a team of agents in field gear. As soon as he sees them, he tells his team to stand down and holsters his sidearm. "Rumor has it that you need a ride, sir." 

"Please." Phil smiles wanly at Jasper. "Get us out of here."

"First aid?"

Phil shakes his head. "Later." He turns to Clint. "Ready to head home?"

"Yes, sir." 

"You look terrible," Sitwell observes when he looks at Clint.

"Can't help it. It's my face." He heads out the door, missing the closeness and intimacy of the night. His head hurts. He squints against the sun, crawls gratefully into the back seat of the SUV. He closes his eyes. When Phil slides in next to him, his thigh pressed close, he finally lets the grinding tension seep out of him. 

They get more first aid treatment on the plane; Phil's wrist is properly splinted, Clint is hooked up to an IV and dosed with Imitrex, which puts him to sleep. When he wakes up, he's in S.H.I.E.L.D.'s medical facility and Phil is sitting in a chair near his bed. He's clean-shaven, wearing one of his trademark suits, with one sleeve hanging loose over his injured arm. Instead of his ever-present tablet, he's reading a book. Clint can't see the title, but the spine is cracked and the edges of the pages are yellowed. Not the latest NYT bestseller, then.

"Déjà vu all over again," Clint murmurs and pushes himself upright. Between the hydration and the migraine meds, he feels almost human again, if scruffy and not quite smelling like a rose. 

Phil closes his book. "Welcome back." 

"Fucking Budapest," Clint mutters. "Go figure."

"It was almost a good trip," Coulson says. He moves his chair closer to Clint's bed. 

"Almost?" Clint is thinking of their kiss; that searing, full of promise and heat, completely _wrong_ kiss. "Sir —" he says, despairing because he's certain that Coulson will shut him down, having had time to reconsider everything. He might even pass him off to Sitwell, which would _kill_ Clint even though he actually likes Sitwell. He forces himself to look at Phil, and what he sees in his expression — so kind, so gentle, so earnest, makes his heart feel like it's going to leap out of his chest. "Coulson?" he asks, uncertainly. 

Phil cradles his face gently, palms warm on Clint's skin. "No regrets, no turning back." He's half serious, but he's also smiling as he kisses Clint. "This is not a negotiable point. When you're out of here, we'll work it out. You saved my life."

"You have a dislocated wrist," Clint says, apropos of nothing, really. 

"It doesn't matter. It could have been a hangnail. The fact is when I'm with you, I know I'm safe."

Clint lets that sink in for a few seconds. "The same," he says, and then yawns, which merits another kiss, slightly off center at the corner of his mouth. "Safe and sound."

Coulson returns to his chair and his book. "What are you reading?" Clint asks. 

"The Adventures of Robin Hood."

"Seriously?"

Coulson adjusts his reading glasses, which Clint finds improbably hot. He has to smile as he listens to Phil's quiet voice takes up the words. 

_"In Merry England in the time of old, when good King Henry the Second ruled the land, there lived within the green glades of Sherwood Forest, near Nottingham Town, a famous outlaw whose name was Robin Hood. No archer ever lived that could speed a gray goose shaft with such skill and cunning as his …"*_

The Adventures of Robin Hood by Howard Pyle.

 

**The End**


End file.
